Every afternoon at four, the children gathered in the yard.
Only the number of water jugs had changed.
Sometimes there were thirty.
Sometimes forty.
Donations filled the garage.
Yet Mr. Whitaker continued ordering the same fourteen jugs every day.
“That part stays the same,” he explained.
“Why?” I once asked.
He smiled.
“Because if I stop paying for them myself… I might forget why I started.”
The First Warning
Late one afternoon in October something felt wrong.
Mr. Whitaker looked tired.
Not ordinary tired.
Something deeper.
Tyler noticed first.
“Mr. W, you okay?”
The old man waved it off.
“Just old soldier joints.”
But when he stood, he winced.
“You should see a doctor,” I told him.
He smiled softly.
“I’ve had seventy-five years of doctors. I’ll survive a few creaky bones.”
The next day, he didn’t come outside.
The kids waited.
And waited.
Finally I knocked on the door.
Inside the House
The house was unusually quiet.
I knocked again.
“Mr. Whitaker?”
No answer.
My stomach tightened.
The door was unlocked.
